


Imperfect

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case in the country soon after our heroes meet leads to first-time fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

> Super-duper blinking-neon-sign thanks to enkiduts for beta and wonderful enthusiasm—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your encouragement, helpful input, and patience with my word nerd debates. And thanks also to nodbear for referencing her OED (I’m so totally jealous that you have one).

Holmes called for Mrs. Hudson before the front door had even closed behind him. Greeted with silence, he called again and then heard footsteps. Mrs. Hudson appeared clad in a dusty apron, wisps of hair escaping from her usually tidy coiffure.

“Mr. Holmes,” she scolded as she strode toward him. “What can possibly be so urgent that you call for me in such a manner?”

“I need you to bring my shirts.”

Mrs. Hudson stared for a few moments before responding. “Your shirts?”

“Yes, my shirts. You were ironing this morning. I must begin packing immediately.”

“Holmes?” The top half of Watson’s body leaned out over the railing at the top of the stairs. “What on earth is the matter?”

“It seems Mr. Holmes will be travelling,” Mrs. Hudson answered, then stared at Holmes disapprovingly.

“Travelling?” Watson withdrew and then reappeared, descending the steps a bit stiffly—it was a miserable, wet day. “Shall I get your valise from the top of the wardrobe?” It was the mildness of his voice that made Holmes realise that he had been almost shouting at the indignant Mrs. Hudson.

“Yes,” Holmes answered after a pause, careful to keep his voice mild. “Yes, thank you, Watson.”

Mrs. Hudson returned to her kitchen without further comment. 

Watson followed Holmes to his bedroom and retrieved his bag, then perched on the edge of the bed as Holmes packed.

“Holmes?”

Perhaps, Holmes thought, if he made use of the train ride as an opportunity to catch up with his reading, his journey would not seem quite as tedious. He moved to the shelves and pulled down several interesting monographs that had gone unread for weeks.

“Holmes,” Watson repeated. “You haven’t said where you’re going.”

Holmes was not accustomed to explaining himself, but he no longer lived alone. Not that Watson demanded any explanations, of course, but he was always interested in Holmes’ doings. Perhaps if he were to tell Watson of this chore that had been inflicted upon him, it might relieve some of his own annoyance.

“I will be attending a small house party at my brother’s estate,” Holmes said.

“Your—” Watson blinked. “You have a brother?”

“Indeed.”

“You never told me that you have a brother.”

“Haven’t I?” Holmes asked, although he knew very well that he had never so much as mentioned Mycroft’s name. “Well, I do have a brother. He is my elder brother, by several years, and he possesses a facility for deduction to an even larger degree than I.”

Watson squinted at Holmes. “Are you saying he’s cleverer than you?” Watson did not quite smile, but a certain light came into his eyes that Holmes’ recognized as amusement. “I’m absolutely certain that’s not possible.”

That vague illumination in Watson’s expression grew, until Holmes found he had to divert his gaze. He did not doubt his ability to dissemble when he put his mind to it, but at times with Watson, who was so generally easy in his manner, Holmes forgot himself.

He turned his attention back to folding his trousers, but he could not resist one more peek at Watson and, seeing the smile that lingered there, was reminded of the moment when they first met, months ago. Holmes had astonished Watson by mentioning Afghanistan—the look on his face had been unforgettable: amazement and open admiration, but not emptiness; one could see behind the wonder that the gears of Watson’s mind were turning, already attempting to determine how Holmes had known. A strange elation had swept over Holmes upon seeing that expression, a sudden, rushing exhilaration that lingered for hours afterward. It was a feeling to which he had quickly become addicted.

“Is it a family gathering?” Watson asked.

“No, no. Mycroft has hired me.”

“A case then?”

“Nothing of interest. Some important papers have gone missing, but Mycroft knows very well who’s to blame.”

A knock at the door interrupted their discussion. Mrs. Hudson had come with Holmes’ shirts. Watson opened the door for her, thanked her, and brought the neatly folded stack to Holmes.

“If your brother knows the man responsible, why not simply have him arrested?”

“What, in his lodgings here in town?” Holmes breathed out a laugh. “He could claim the papers are in his possession for some legitimate purpose. He is involved with revising the documents in question, after all. No, we must be able to charge him with something specific.”

“Then what are you to do?”

“Mycroft believes the papers will be sold to a foreign government agent, of which there will be several at the estate this weekend. I’m going to catch the scoundrel red-handed,” Holmes explained as he laid the shirts into his valise. “You have to understand: my brother is a man of great intellect, but when it comes to more physical pursuits, he will make no effort.”

“And you’re leaving now?” Watson asked.

“Yes, this very moment.” Holmes closed the clasp of the valise and allowed Watson to lift it off the bed. “Mycroft believes the exchange will happen very soon, and many of his guests will be arriving on the afternoon train. I intend to catch that train, if not the last one this morning.”

Watson hesitated, the bag dangling from his hand. “Whoever this fellow is, he can’t be very clever, can he? Conducting this business under your brother’s roof?”

“Unless they intend to pass the documents over the dining table, Mycroft is highly unlikely to intercept them—his guests likely know that very well. Mycroft expects me to do all of his running up stairs and creeping down hallways. I suppose I should be insulted that he thinks this is how I earn my living.”

This earned a small chuckle from Watson. “You do your fair share of creeping about, you must admit.”

Holmes ignored this remark and gave his best melancholy sigh. “It will be thoroughly absurd. Even if there is some kind of excitement in apprehending the culprit, which I sincerely doubt, it will be otherwise insufferable. There will likely be croquet. Tea under a tent on the damp grass when Mycroft’s house has any number of comfortable drawing rooms more suitable to the purpose.”

When Watson did not react for several long moments to this great show of being put-upon, Holmes rather feared he had overplayed it. He reached for his bag, but even when he gave a slight tug, Watson did not release his hold.

Watson cleared his throat. “May I come along?”

Holmes looked at Watson’s expectant face in surprise. “Watson, I’ve only just finished describing how very tedious it will be.”

Watson looked down, seemed to suddenly realise that they were now both grasping the worn leather handle of Holmes’ valise, and pulled his hand away. “There’s the case to consider.”

“As I explained, it isn’t truly a case, merely—”

“But perhaps I could be of assistance.” Watson gave a lopsided shrug, then broke into a sheepish smile. “Besides, I rather like croquet.”

*****

The day was uncommonly warm, almost uncomfortably so. The rain of the day before had stopped during the night, and Holmes had awakened to a world washed clean and glistening with raindrops. Now the afternoon sun had dried the grass, and Mycroft’s guests were scattered about the lawn. Some strolled through the formal gardens near the house, while others joined the impromptu cricket match on the lawn.

Holmes sat down to observe, but he did not join the other guests on the dainty chairs set up by the staff; he preferred to watch from a distance, finding a garden bench on the far side of the lawn. He had fully expected to be annoyed by the expectation that he should pass the time in such a manner, outdoors and idle, but instead was feeling rather contented, sitting in the shade and watching Watson run about with the more athletically inclined men of the party.

Holmes was surprised to see Mycroft emerging from the French doors of the library and crossing the lawn. He sank heavily onto the stone bench next to Holmes and sighed.

“So very tiresome,” he muttered.

“Ah, finally our host graces us with his presence.”

“One must make an appearance,” Mycroft sniffed. “And under the guise of doting brother, I may speak privately with you and point out the rogue who has my papers: Lucas Bell. There he is—that tall fellow who’s just been bowled out.”

Holmes followed Mycroft’s gaze and saw the man in question: a lanky, sharp faced man of perhaps thirty years of age. His hair was dark and thick, his face turned slightly pink—from his exertions in the game, or perhaps from embarrassment. Though he was smiling, it was obvious that he was not pleased to be the last man out.

Holmes nodded to let Mycroft know that he had seen, then caught sight of Watson leaning down to take up a bat from the grass. On this warm spring day he had left his walking stick indoors, and it pleased Holmes to see the ease of his movements. He was truly well now—almost completely recovered from his injuries and the effects of the fever.

Watson leaned over and whispered something to one of the other men that made them both break into laughter. This is what Watson must have looked like at school, Holmes thought, so confident and boyishly handsome.

“What a lovely boy you’ve found for yourself,” Mycroft said airily.

Holmes shot a glare over his shoulder, and Mycroft laughed to see him so indignant. “Come now, you’re obviously besotted with him.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Holmes frowned. He could admit to himself that Mycroft was not wrong—how could Holmes be blamed with such an object to draw his attention? However, that did not mean he appreciated being mocked for it.

Mycroft chuckled again. “Oh, so he does not share your inclination? What a shame. You haven’t had a pretty boy to distract you in far too long. It always does you good.”

Holmes attempted to adopt Mycroft’s light detachment. “He’s not some mindless boy. He is a decorated veteran and a doctor.”

“An army surgeon,” Mycroft scoffed.

“More than that.” Holmes answered, determined to prevent Mycroft’s off-handed dismissal. “And he’s a bit of a writer.”

Mycroft shot Holmes a sideways glance, hiding a smile.

“No, truly,” Holmes insisted. “He has some talent.”

“And what has he written?”

“Accounts of a few of my more interesting cases. He’s been tagging along of late and has been some help to me. He’s got a publisher interested—”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “As if your opinion of yourself isn’t sufficiently inflated, you now have enlisted the services of a boy biographer to—”

“My dear brother, I—”

“Now, now,” Mycroft interrupted. “I am sorry, but you make it so very easy to tease—jumping in to defend your latest paramour—”

“As I explained, Doctor Watson is not—”

“Oh, yes, yes. Please, spare me your indignation. I understand perfectly: you live together in platonic bliss.”

Holmes could see that continued objections would only fuel Mycroft’s amusement. Perhaps a change of tactics would serve better. “I do believe you’re envious.”

Mycroft’s answering laugh was deep and long. “Oh, my goodness, no,” he said, still breathless. He lowered his chin and looked at Holmes fondly from under his brow. “It is good to have you here.”

After giving Holmes’ shoulder a pat, Mycroft retreated to his shuttered library, still chuckling to himself, and Holmes was able to turn his attention back to the cricket players. He watched Mr. Bell, but he was doing nothing of note. Holmes’ eyes were quickly pulled back to Watson.

Holmes supposed he should not blame Mycroft for seeing Watson as no more than a pretty boy. If Holmes had not seen him six months ago—still ill, too thin, rattled by nightmares—and had not witnessed firsthand Watson’s determination to recover, he might not believe it himself. Watson now, smiling, eyes bright from his exercise and hair almost golden in the bright sunshine, looked as though he had never been ill a day in his life.

Holmes wondered if he would have agreed to share lodgings had he first seen Watson as he was that morning. He might have seemed too ordinary had he not been a struggling convalescent. Even now, it interested Holmes to think that Watson was not as perfect as he appeared. He seemed healthy and strong but he was still rather fragile. He could be incapacitated by a bit of damp weather, and a sleepless night would put shadows under his eyes.

A thrill of fear ran through Holmes with the realisation of how quickly he himself would likely have dismissed a hale and hearty Watson, much as Mycroft had done. The thought that he might never have befriended Watson was extremely disconcerting.

As the sun grew hotter, various men in the party began to drop out of the game, mopping their faces with their handkerchiefs and falling into chairs in the shade. Watson stuck with it to the last and still appeared as cool and unrumpled as when he had stepped onto the field. When it was clear that there were not enough players to continue, he looked around, almost certainly seeking out Holmes among the guests, but before their eyes met a woman’s voice called out in distress.

Instantly Watson was running across the grass and into the gardens. Holmes followed, sprinting. The voice called out again, and Holmes realised the sound came from the corner of the garden farthest from the house, where there was a large fishpond. Could some foolish girl have toppled into the water?

Holmes emerged from the shrubbery in time to see Watson reach the edge of the pond, where a small knot of guests had trampled the grass on the bank. Holmes gauged Watson’s reaction: his entire body, which had been tensed for action, relaxed when the water was clearly in his view. If Watson was unperturbed, then there was no need for alarm, and Holmes slowed his pace.

The cause of the uproar was soon plain: a lady’s hat, blown by the wind into the fishpond. It was an impractical, fashionable thing, pink and decked with ribbons. Holmes had no patience for the matter—to cry out so over the loss of a lacy scrap of millinery? He was already turning away when Watson smiled at the girl, bending over to speak to her. His hand gently cupped her elbow as he spoke, and she was clearly dazzled by his charms.

Holmes feet were riveted to the path and he could not look away. The girl did not need comforting—a good firm slap would have been more effective in quieting her hysterics, but there was Watson, ever the gentleman, soothing her with his kind words and gentle manner.

When Watson stepped away from the silly girl, Holmes nodded in approval, but Watson did not walk away. Instead he bent to remove his shoes. Holmes did not want to trust his senses as he watched Watson roll up the cuffs of his trousers and wade into the murky water to fetch the hat while the young woman simpered and wrung her hands.

Retrieving the hat was but a few moments’ work, though Watson’s preparation of his clothing had been for naught: the water was well above his knees before he could take hold of the hat’s brim. He turned and made his way back to the bank, climbed nimbly onto the grass, and presented the hat with a flourish and a charming smile. He required only a horse and shining armor to complete the perfect picture of chivalry.

The young lady laughed, delighted, and laid her hand on Watson’s arm. Before he quite knew what he was about, Holmes had made his way across the lawn, uncertain what he would say or do once he reached Watson’s side but unable to stay away when confronted with the sight of the girl’s face turned adoringly up to Watson’s as she babbled her thanks. As Holmes approached, he was appalled to see Watson blush and smile at her shyly.

It was enough to stop Holmes in his tracks once again. He was not eager to interrupt such a tableau, but then Watson looked up and spied Holmes nearby. The smile that spread across his face was nothing like the one he had bestowed upon the girl. It was radiant and honest with a hint of devilry: Watson found the situation equally as ridiculous as did Holmes but chose to be amused by it rather than disgusted.

In spite of himself, Holmes smiled in return. Watson moved away from the girl and hastened to put his trousers to rights and replace his stockings and shoes. As soon as he stood, the young woman latched onto his arm, but his eyes caught and held Holmes’ as he led her up the path.

“Miss Garside, may I present my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes, still filled with the warmth of Watson’s smile, felt he could be polite. “A pleasure,” he said as he reached out for the girl’s hand.

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Mr. Holmes.” She had released her hold long enough to touch Holmes’ hand, but immediately clung to Watson’s arm once again. She gazed up at Watson’s handsome face and began to gush. “When Mother told me of this house party I loathed the idea, simply _loathed_ it. I would never have thought, _never_ , that Father’s colleagues could be such charming company.”

She was pretty in a modest sort of way. Her dark curls were pulled away from her face, and her large brown eyes were surrounded by long, thick lashes. However, Holmes thought her complexion was rather ruined by the smattering of freckles across her face, and he was already exhausted by her tendency to chatter.

“Oh, Dr. Watson, would you escort me back to the house? All this excitement! And it’s getting to be so very warm. Would you mind terribly?”

Watson’s eyes darted to Holmes, who could now see it was embarrassment at her fawning rather than pleasure that made him blush. “Of course, Miss Garside.” As Watson tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his elbow, he flashed another bright, playful grin at Holmes before schooling his expression to more appropriate polite attention.

Walking slowly behind Watson and Miss Garside, Holmes mused on the picture they presented. Watson, tall, strong, and solid, managed to move gracefully despite the discomfort of his wet trousers and the burden of Miss Garside hanging on his arm.

Why was Watson simply amused at the woman’s lack of subtlety rather than fleeing in terror? He truly saw the girl as a determined flirt rather than a scheming huntress in the marriage mart. Here was a quality in Watson that Holmes did not always find appealing: he was far too inclined to be optimistic and accept the world at face value. It was not that Watson was an unthinking man; he knew the weaknesses of human nature but tempered that knowledge with kindness, preferring to make a mistake by giving the benefit of the doubt than to condemn prematurely.

If that was a flaw in Watson’s character, then it was one that Holmes had come to grudgingly appreciate, if only because it made Watson tolerant of Holmes’ own eccentricities. And somehow Watson’s flaws did not lower him in Holmes’ esteem. The lingering effect of his injury, and his silly romantic faith in mankind, and his ridiculous, wonderful blind trust in Holmes: all combined to make the man. Perfect in his imperfection.

The glare of the afternoon sun sent many of the guests indoors. Holmes entered the drawing room alone and found a seat where he could survey the crowd. Watson met his eye and nodded when he came downstairs after changing his clothes, but it was not long before Miss Garside spied him and called him over. She managed to keep him at her side until it was time to dress for dinner—he was too polite to interrupt and leave her. Mycroft’s housekeeper must have noted Watson’s attendance on Miss Garside, for they were seated together at supper.

Holmes almost laughed at the exasperated expression on Watson’s face when he saw how things were arranged, but he recovered quickly. If Watson spoke more to the woman to his left, a silver-haired widow who had spent some years in India, than to Miss Garside, no one but Holmes and the young lady herself seemed to take any notice.

When the ladies had left the dining room and brandy had been doled out, Holmes hoped to finally steal a moment with Watson, who seemed equally eager to speak with him. However, as Holmes rose from his chair, his brother did likewise, and, being seated rather close to Watson, Mycroft was able to engage him in conversation before Holmes had even rounded the end of the dining table.

Holmes had every intention of joining them, but as he approached Mycroft shot a steely gaze in his direction: an obvious and vehement warning to steer clear. Out of surprise more than any real desire to be obedient, Holmes altered his course and went to the sideboard for a cigarette. He would have interrupted, but if Mycroft expressed any displeasure, it might prompt Watson to ask questions—far better to go along with Mycroft’s whim and allow him his private conversation.

Holmes strained his ears, but he was too far away to hear the words exchanged. He knew he should not be concerned, for Mycroft would not say anything indiscreet, but Holmes felt anxious all the same. After lighting his cigarette, he turned to watch. Watson was smiling at Mycroft, who seemed to be doing all of the talking. Mycroft shook Watson’s hand, then moved on to speak with his other guests.

Immediately Watson’s eyes found Holmes, and he nodded. They met at the fireplace. Watson leaned close and kept his voice low, but he managed to do so without the appearance of trying to be secretive. “Holmes, I think it’s Mr. Bell who has the papers. He’s the tall fellow there, with the red cravat. He was most indiscreet.”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes said. “What did he say to you?”

“Bell?”

“No, Mycroft! What did Mycroft say to you?”

Watson blinked at Holmes, then shook his head. “He simply introduced himself and welcomed me. I don’t understand what that has to do with the case.”

Holmes frowned. What could Mycroft had wanted with Watson?

“Holmes? Don’t you want to hear my thoughts on Mr. Bell?”

“Mr. Bell?” Holmes tried to shake off his distraction. “Yes, Lucas Bell, of course. He’s our man.”

“You think I’m right?”

“Yes, of course. Mycroft told me hours ago.”

Watson was silent. He had not been present when Mycroft had pointed out the culprit and clearly had been pleased to discover it on his own, but rather than applaud Watson’s accomplishment or express pleasure that he had attempted to contribute, Holmes had responded with irritation. He truly enjoyed teaching his methods, and Watson had proven himself to be a more than capable pupil, but Holmes had never been formed to play the role of patient professor. He checked his eagerness to rush forward and asked Watson how he had deduced that Bell was the guilty party.

Watson exhaled loudly. His enthusiasm was gone. “His attitude was rather less than sporting in the match today.”

At first the idea seemed laughable to Holmes—the notion that a man’s participation in a game would reveal anything of import about him. However, Holmes was determined not to show his impatience again and made himself pause, thinking of Watson’s performance early that day: he threw himself fully into the game with cheerful enthusiasm, exerting himself to do well but acknowledging with good humour when he was bested. He was bold, but not stupidly daring. His behavior on the field was a perfect metaphor for the manner in which he conducted himself in the larger world and a sharp contrast to the embarrassed sulking of Lucas Bell after being bowled out. Of course a dishonest, sneaking sort like Lucas Bell would show his colors even in sport: ready to take advantage given the opportunity and feeling put-upon when things did not go his way.

“I made sure I had a chance to speak with him,” Watson continued. “I daresay he thinks I’m some kind of simpleton who thinks of nothing but cricket, but I stayed close, discussing the match with anyone who would listen to me, and I overheard him talking with Mr. Percy Carlisle.”

Holmes was instantly alert. “Carlisle?”

“You didn’t know then? That Carlisle is in on it as well?” Watson smiled. “When I was with Miss Garside this afternoon, I heard them talking about meeting in the old schoolroom at midnight.”

Before he quite realised it, Holmes had reached out to grasp Watson’s arm. “Well done, Watson.”

Watson’s surprise quickly gave way to pleasure at the praise.

“I’ll come to fetch you,” Holmes said. “Retire to your room as soon as possible and try to catch a bit of sleep. We’ll go to the schoolroom and wait for them there.”

*****

Watson was sound asleep when Holmes came for him. His right hand was tucked under his head, while his left hugged a pillow to his chest. His breathing was deep and even. Holmes came close, intending to wake him, but when the light of the candle fell full on Watson’s handsome face he found himself transfixed. He reached out and touched Watson’s mouth, the pad of his finger sliding over Watson’s smooth lower lip and the tip brushing across Watson’s moustache. Watson stirred at the touch, and Holmes snatched his hand away.

“Rise and shine, my dear Watson.”

Rolling onto his back, Watson opened his eyes and looked up at Holmes with a sleepy smile. “Already?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s ten past eleven. I want to be well hidden before Bell and his friends enter.”

As Watson threw off the bedclothes, Holmes noted that he wore pyjamas. He must have picked up the habit while in India. Their effect was strangely titillating: although the pyjamas covered more of Watson’s skin than would a nightgown—for he could not even glimpse Watson’s ankles above his bare feet—they actually gave a more clear impression of his body under the fabric. They were more fitted, displaying the breadth of his shoulders and chest, and when Watson bent to don his slippers, the pyjama shirt was drawn up, leaving only a single, thin layer of cotton, pulled taut over his thighs and buttocks.

Still yawning, Watson reached for his dressing gown, but Holmes put out a hand to stop him. “No, get dressed. We’ll go upstairs in just a moment.”

Watson nodded and turned to where he had left his clothes neatly folded over the chair. Holmes had thought to discuss their plan of action as Watson dressed, but as he watched Watson’s fingers work at the buttons on his pyjamas, offering a glimpse of collarbone, he found it very difficult to maintain his focus. He rose and left the room, feigning impatience to cover his confusion.

*****

In the end, it concluded rather disappointingly. Mycroft’s papers were recovered all too easily. Holmes and Watson hid themselves, and not ten minutes later Bell and Carlisle arrived. Their buyer came five minutes after that, and at Holmes’ call, Mycroft’s men burst into the room and arrested the lot of them. Holmes would have been irritated at Mycroft for dragging him out to the country had it not been for Watson’s hand gently gripping his arm as they made their way to the third-floor schoolroom, Watson whispering in his ear in the darkened corridor, pressing close as they hid in the window bay behind the dusty draperies.

When all of the others had gone, Watson stood in the middle of the room looking bereft. He always enjoyed getting into a bit of a tussle, and all three culprits had submitted to their arrests meekly.

“Don’t be too disappointed. This was not an exciting conclusion, but you were marvelous.”

The skepticism on Watson’s face threatened to make Holmes laugh.

“No, truly. It was your straightforward nature that led them to speak so freely. It gave us the information we needed.”

“You mean to say they thought I was too thick to be any kind of a threat,” Watson said gloomily.

“And their misjudgment was their downfall.”

Watson was clearly still dissatisfied, and it made Holmes’ annoyance at Mycroft return.

“Perhaps you should try to get a few more hours’ sleep, Watson. I’ll go and speak to my brother.”

As Holmes made his way downstairs to the study, he became more and more certain that there was more to this case than Mycroft had first admitted. He threw open the door without knocking, and Mycroft spoke without so much as a glance to see who had entered.

“Do close the door, Sherlock. You’re letting in a draught.”

Holmes complied but strode to the desk and leaned over, blocking the light from the lamp so that Mycroft had to look up from his reading.

“Are you pleased with the resolution of your case?” Mycroft asked with maddening mildness.

“Case? It wasn’t a case. You hardly needed my assistance with this matter.”

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft answered loftily. “But it was a convenient excuse to make you visit me.”

Holmes laughed. “That’s why you engaged my services? To coax me into a pilgrimage to the ancestral home? I don’t believe it.”

“But it’s true,” Mycroft insisted. “I wanted to see you. You’ll simply have to forgive me—I don’t often indulge in protective fraternal impulses, but you’ve scarcely darkened my door since the good doctor came into your life. I couldn’t think what to make of it.”

Mycroft rose from his chair and led Holmes across the room. “But I think I approve of your John Watson,” he said as he settled himself onto the sofa. “You’ve had several boys that were much less intelligent and not nearly so pleasant to look at.”

The purpose of Mycroft’s after-supper ambush of Watson was now made clear: Mycroft had wanted to inspect Watson, determine his worthiness. Holmes did not want to be pleased that Watson passed muster, for it was not Mycroft’s place to judge. However, his words came out with less venom than he had hoped: “Watson is not a boy.”

“No.” Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “No, I suppose he’s not.”

“Very good,” Holmes said in his most agreeable manner while he helped himself to Mycroft’s tobacco.

*****

Late the next morning, Watson’s knock at the bedroom door interrupted Holmes as he gathered his things to return to town.

“Are we through then?” Watson asked as he watched Holmes stowing his hastily folded shirts.

“Yes, unless you feel the need for more lawn bowling.”

Holmes did not look up but heard Watson’s single small huff of laughter. “No, by all means,” he answered. “Let’s go home.”

When Watson spoke, Holmes realised that the word had resonant meaning now: those paper-strewn rooms on Baker Street truly had become his home. Holmes shook his head and returned his attention to his packing, scolding himself for waxing maudlin. It was most unlike him.

“You don’t wish to go home?” Watson asked.

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You shook your head,” Watson said. “You’d rather stay?”

In a split second, Holmes made his decision. He dropped the pair of stockings he had been holding and took two steps forward to stand in front of where Watson leaned against the bedpost. Before he could think better of it, he brushed his lips over Watson’s, the merest whisper of a kiss.

When Holmes opened his eyes and dared to look, Watson was staring at him, wide-eyed and speechless.

“Are you thoroughly repulsed?” Holmes asked with affected nonchalance.

Watson’s mouth fell open, but he did not speak.

“Outraged? Traumatized? Are you—?”

“Surprised,” Watson interrupted. “Merely surprised.”

He was breathless and spoke quietly. Holmes was drawn closer.

“Then perhaps I ought to kiss you again,” Holmes whispered. “So that we might determine your reaction when given fair warning.”

For several heartbeats Holmes waited, thinking that he had never been so terrified in all his life, but then Watson closed his eyes and tilted his head. The almost immediate surrender implicit in the gesture was irresistible. Holmes leaned close and pressed their mouths together, wrapping one arm about Watson’s waist.

Watson’s lips were warm and responsive, and they parted, inviting Holmes to take further liberties. Watson let out a quiet sigh when Holmes pushed his tongue into his mouth, and his hands grabbed at Holmes’ waist, pulling him closer until the bedpost squeaked in protest at the pressure of their combined weight.

Holmes pulled himself away and watched Watson’s face anxiously. When his eyes finally opened, he looked astounded, but his astonishment soon gave way to a smile, and his arms encircled Holmes. The wood of the bedpost creaked again alarmingly, and Watson moved them both away from it, pulling Holmes down with him until they sat side by side on the bed. Immediately they turned toward each other, and Watson slid his hand over Holmes’ cheek and jaw before twining fingers into his hair, leaning in to find his mouth.

Holmes meant to carry on slowly, he truly did. But Watson’s kisses were so eager, and when Holmes touched his thigh, only for the pleasure of feeling its lean strength under his hand, Watson moaned encouragement. When his hand slid higher, Watson panted, “God, yes.” And Holmes could not resist moving his hand yet higher until he could feel Watson’s cock through his trousers—already hard and straining against his palm as Watson groaned again.

“Please, Holmes,” he panted. “Please.”

Unbuttoning Watson’s trousers took but a moment, and Holmes watched his face carefully as he slid one hand into his smallclothes. Watson gasped as skin met skin. His grasp in Holmes’ hair tightened almost painfully before he withdrew his hand and used it to steady himself, leaning back onto the bed so that he could push into Holmes’ grasp.

Holmes relished the sight of Watson biting his lip to stay silent. He felt he could happily live in that moment forever, savouring the feel of the soft, warm skin along the solid length of Watson’s cock, but already he could feel wetness at the tip with every stroke, and Watson was having more difficulty stifling his moans. He thrust upward erratically, groaning Holmes’ name, then cried out as he came. Holmes stifled the sound with a kiss and held Watson as he shuddered, then was still.

Watson opened his eyes and looked up at Holmes. If seeing Watson’s face when impressed with Holmes’ cleverness had been addicting, Holmes predicted that this expression would be infinitely more so, being flavored with fondness and desire and simple happiness. Watson held Holmes’ head in both hands as he kissed him, still breathless.

A knock at the door made them both start, and Holmes’ eyes darted over to see if the key was turned. It was not. He struggled to keep his tone even. “One moment.”

“Mr. Holmes, the carriage has been brought round to take you to the station.”

Watson tucked his head into the crook of Holmes’ neck. He shook ever so slightly within the circle of Holmes’ arms, and Holmes cursed the intrusion.

“Thank you. I’ll be down momentarily,” Holmes called out as Watson’s trembling worsened. “Would you be so kind as to tell Dr. Watson that the carriage is ready?”

“Certainly, sir.”

After allowing a few moments for the servant to move away from the door, Holmes withdrew, a thousand assurances ready in his mind, but Watson was not regretful or ashamed—his body was shaking against Holmes’ from the force of his suppressed laughter.

“This is mad,” Watson said after a few breaths of laughter. “Why did you send him to find me?”

“So he would not suspect that you are in here, half-dressed and debauched.”

Watson laughed again, then kissed him, slow and deliberate, sliding one hand up his leg. Holmes pulled away.

“No, Watson, not now.”

“What?”

“We must go. The carriage is waiting.”

“But Holmes…”

“We’ll have all the time in the world once we’re home—”

Holmes was interrupted by another ardent kiss and wavered—perhaps they should stay after all—but he stood firm. “Please, Watson. I would rather be home, alone with you.”

Watson nodded then, willing to abide by Holmes’ wishes but apparently too dazed to take any action other than kissing him yet again. Holmes found Watson’s handkerchief in his pocket and began to tidy him up, refastening his trousers and tugging on his waistcoat to straighten it.

“There now,” Holmes said. He patted Watson’s leg while Watson nuzzled at his ear. “You must pack your things.”

Watson did not go. He gave Holmes another lingering kiss, letting out a low humming sound as if he were savouring some gourmet confection.

“Watson…”

“Yes,” Watson answered, pulling away regretfully. He laughed a bit and tried to smooth his hair with his hands. “Of course.”

“I’ll go down immediately. Pack your things as quickly as you can.”

“Of course,” Watson repeated. He walked to the door, but turned before leaving the room. Still looking dazed, he stared at Holmes. “But Holmes, you will allow me to… Once we are at home, that is?”

Watson’s uncertainty was rather endearing. Holmes crossed the room and kissed him one last time, tenderly. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

A few moments’ delay proved sufficient for Holmes to calm himself and close up his valise. He made his way to the front door with measured steps, though he felt he could have danced down the stairs.

Mycroft was waiting in the foyer to see them off, and the moment he met Holmes’ eyes he squinted suspiciously. “What’s the matter?”

Holmes smiled. “Nothing at all. I am happy to have helped and even happier to be on my way home. What could be the matter?”

At that very moment Watson appeared at the head of the stairs. His flushed cheeks had cooled and his mussed hair had been combed. He had tidied his clothes so that he looked as dapper as ever, but when his eyes met Holmes’ over the staircase railing, his face broke into a brilliant, rather telling smile. Holmes was elated by the sight, but he also had to cringe at Watson’s transparency. Not that Watson was to blame—how often had Holmes reminded him that people were blind to what they did not expect to see? But he had never explained about his brother.

When he saw Watson’s expression, Mycroft let out a almost imperceptible groan. “Good God, Sherlock, could you not wait until you’d left my house?”

However, he shook Watson’s hand with honest warmth before seeing them out the door and waving them away.

*****

“How can you be so calm?” Watson whispered. “I can’t seem to sit still, and you didn’t even—” Watson broke off, blushed, and turned his face to the window.

“Never doubt my skill at deception,” Holmes answered. “I assure you that I am far from calm.”

Watson looked back to smile, his cheeks still flushed. Doors slammed up and down the length of the train, and soon the countryside was flying by. Watson took off his overcoat and spread it over their laps. Holmes was about to protest—the weather had turned cool again, but not so much so as to be uncomfortable—until Watson’s hand sought his under this makeshift blanket, twining their fingers. Holmes moved his leg so that their thighs pressed together, and Watson’s fingers tightened.

“Will you satisfy my curiosity about one question?” Holmes teased.

“Anything,” Watson answered promptly, giving Holmes’ hand another squeeze.

“How is possible that you were not shocked and dismayed by my attentions? It was all rather sudden, I admit.”

Smiling shyly, Watson bowed his head before he said softly, “I suspected your… preferences.” His eyes darted toward Holmes, then away again to the passing scenery. “I have for some time now.”

Holmes was taken completely by surprise. He had been confident that he had done nothing to reveal his unusual interest in his fellow lodger, and he had not had any relations with other men since they met. “How did you know?”

Watson only shook his head in response.

Holmes leaned close. “Tell me.” His lips brushed Watson’s ear, and he was gratified to feel Watson shiver against him. Watson, however, still did not answer, flashing a boyishly defiant grin in Holmes’ direction.

 _Good God_ , Holmes thought. _I am utterly lost_.

“Please, Watson, tell me.”

Watson’s expression softened at the gentleness of Holmes’ voice. “I noticed you watching me at times…. At first I couldn’t think what you meant by it, but then I started to…” He swallowed, and when he spoke again, it was the merest whisper. “The oddest feeling would come over me. I found that I liked it… when you looked at me in that manner.”

“No small wonder you questioned my abilities as an actor, then. I was sadly transparent.”

Watson nudged Holmes’ leg with his knee.

“But if you knew,” Holmes continued. “Why were you surprised when I kissed you?”

The words made Watson start, and Holmes was reminded of where they were, shocked at his own carelessness. However, the door to their compartment was almost shut. It was unlikely that anyone would have heard, and Watson did not seem overly concerned, although he did lower his voice.

“I never thought you’d act on it. I was working up the courage to do something myself.”

The words affected Holmes more than he would have thought possible. Once he knew he could modulate his tone, he asked, “So you did not mind that I watched you in such a shameless fashion?”

Pink still tinting his face, Watson shook his head.

“Have you ever before—?”

“No,” Watson blurted out. Then he continued in a quieter tone. “No, I haven’t. I do hope… Well, my inexperience…”

“I assure you, your inexperience will not be the slightest impediment.”

The flush on Watson’s face and neck deepened once again.

The train had stopped in the next town to board more London-bound passengers, and an elderly couple asked if they might share the compartment. Watson politely agreed. Though their conversation by necessity changed to less interesting topics, Watson did not let go of Holmes’ hand, and his eyes rarely strayed from Holmes’ face or lost their impish, almost flirtatious, gleam. It was engaging to have someone pay such close attention to his every movement—it heightened his awareness of his own body, which was urgently expressing its desires. Holmes was impatient, of course, but the anticipation was too delicious for him to be unhappy.

The cab ride home was an almost silent one. Holmes had entered first and was disconcerted when Watson took the seat across from him rather than settling next to him, but it made a certain sense: the cab’s large windows and relatively slow pace did leave them vulnerable to view from outside.

Both of them climbed out immediately when the driver stopped on Baker Street, and as Holmes unlocked the door, Watson paid the fare, without his usual polite thanks. Holmes was pleased to see evidence of his distracted state. Stepping inside, Holmes was surprised to find the house dark, but they had not been expected for another day or two.

“Mrs. Hudson?” When there was no response, Watson called out again, then set down their bags at his feet. Holmes found himself hoping that Mrs. Hudson had taken advantage of their absence to arrange for an evening out. The idea of having Watson all to himself in complete privacy was, to say the least, appealing.

Holmes tried a third time. “Mrs. Hudson!”

Watson’s arms slid around Holmes’ waist from behind and pulled him close. “We’re alone,” he whispered into Holmes’ ear, then pressed his face into Holmes’ neck.

Before Holmes could object, Watson spun him around and kissed him. If Watson’s ardor had been at all sated that morning, their journey had provide ample time for it to be restored. He pushed Holmes back onto the stairs, insinuated himself between Holmes’ knees, and snaked both hands well inside his clothing, all the while never allowing their mouths to separate for more than an instant.

Holmes had been correct to think that Watson’s lack of experience would not be an obstacle, for he threw himself into their new pursuit with the same happy enthusiasm and natural physical aptitude with which he engaged in athletic competition. Once Watson’s hand found Holmes’ cock, it was all Holmes could do to restrain himself from calling out so loudly that passersby on the street outside would be startled.

It took an embarrassingly short time for Watson to reduce Holmes to a boneless exhaustion, and it was not until he spent several minutes clinging to Watson’s shoulders and panting that he took note of the small of his back pressing uncomfortably against the lip of the step behind him. It occurred to him then how very foolish they were being—in plain view of the front door. If Mrs. Hudson had arrived home moments earlier they would never have noticed.

“Watson.”

Watson’s mouth was sucking at Holmes’ neck. “Hmm?” He pulled away to look down at Holmes with heavy-lidded eyes. Holmes put one hand on Watson’s shoulder to steady himself, and Watson eyed him hopefully.

“No, my dear,” Holmes whispered, and Watson frowned. Holmes touched his face to smooth out the expression. “No more of this mad rush. I want to take my time with you.”

Watson’s eyes grew wide, and he grabbed Holmes’ hand, pulling on his arm to help him rise. In spite of Holmes’ demand that they rush no longer, they clattered up the stairs at top speed, Holmes fumbling to button at least one button on his trousers so that they would not fall down.

Their urgency was understandable, but Holmes wanted the luxury of privacy, not only so that they might seek their pleasure in a more unhurried manner but also so that they might lounge together afterwards in comfort—he would tolerate no more servants knocking on unlocked doors or stair treads digging into his flesh.

When they reached Holmes’ bedroom, he lit a lamp, leaving its light dim. Watson turned the key with a flick of his wrist, then stepped close for a kiss. Holmes allowed the embrace for only a moment before pulling away and beginning to peel off his clothes. His eyes never left Watson’s face, wanting to gauge his reaction. If Watson balked at indulging in more than quick, furtive encounters, it would be better to discover the fact immediately, but Watson’s gaze swept over Holmes’ body hungrily.

Once Holmes was nude he lost no time starting on Watson’s clothes. He was not hurrying, he told himself, but it would not be fair to expect too much patience from Watson. Indeed, as Holmes slid Watson’s waistcoat off his shoulders, he tore off his collar and cuffs, and his fingers groped at his shirt buttons. He was anxious to help, but Holmes wanted the task all to himself. He pushed Watson’s hands away.

“No mad rush,” he scolded, and Watson did not argue.

As Watson’s shirt fell to the floor, Holmes started on the trouser buttons. Watson’s breath was loud in Holmes’ ear, and Holmes turned his head to meet Watson in a kiss. Watson’s arms twined around Holmes’ waist as his lips traveled down Holmes’ neck and shoulder.

Watson pulled Holmes closer, trapping his hands between them, and nudged at Holmes’ hip through the trousers. With a gentle shove, Holmes again made space for his hands to move and was finally able to slide Watson’s trousers down, falling to his knees to remove Watson’s shoes and socks and help him step free of his clothing.

From his position on the floor, Holmes looked up to admire Watson’s strong form: the dark hair on his chest and at his groin, his cock jutting out eagerly, the lean muscles of his thighs.

“Holmes!” It was a whispered entreaty, and Holmes smiled as he rose, taking Watson’s hand and guiding him to the bed. Watson threw himself down on the quilt and looked up at Holmes expectantly, but Holmes took a moment to appreciate the sight of Watson, spread out before him like a banquet, before leaning in for one gentle kiss.

“Holmes, please,” Watson begged.

Holmes kneeled on the bed beside Watson and began a leisurely exploration of his person. After several lingering kisses on his lips, Holmes moved his mouth over Watson’s neck and chest, loving the contrast of smooth skin and soft, curling hair against his face. He paused for a moment to pay tribute to Watson’s arm, licking a stripe up his bicep and splaying a hand over his well-built shoulder before Watson pulled him up for another kiss.

Moving lower on the bed, Holmes stroked his hand over Watson’s flat stomach, over his hip, and down his leg. Watson turned his body shamelessly—Holmes knew where Watson wanted his touch, but he would not be hurried. His fingers cupped Watson’s knee before gliding up and ghosting over the crease where Watson’s thigh met his body. This made Watson’s breath catch and then he let out a breathy laugh.

Holmes pressed his face into Watson’s belly. As his mouth slid over Watson’s hipbone, Watson let out a small whimper and again whispered his name in desperation. Holmes allowed himself a small smile—he did not intend to tease, but he was thrilled that Watson was so responsive to his caresses. He pressed another kiss to Watson’s hip, then moved to take Watson’s cock into his mouth.

“Dear God,” Watson choked out, and he thrust up, his hands coming up to grip Holmes’ shoulders. It was plain that he would soon finish if Holmes continued, but he was loathe to let it end so quickly. He grabbed Watson’s hips with both hands to hold him down, and then very slowly, keeping his lips sealed tightly around Watson’s cock, pulled back and lay to one side.

He gave Watson another kiss to silence any possible complaints, then wrapped his hand around Watson’s cock, watching, fascinated, as a bead of fluid formed at the tip. He moved one finger through the slippery wetness, spreading it over the heated skin. Watson moaned, and another drop appeared. Holmes took Watson’s cock between his lips again, eliciting another rumbling groan. As Watson began to push up with tentative thrusts, Holmes moved his hand down between his buttocks, probing gently.

Watson froze, every muscle his body tensing.

Holmes stopped as well, withdrawing his hand. “Have I surprised you again, my dear?”

Watson snorted out a nervous laugh, and his entire frame relaxed. There it was again—that unquestioning trust. Holmes felt a flood of gratitude for his undeserved good fortune.

Holmes lowered his head and ran his tongue up the length of Watson’s cock before closing his mouth over the head. He moved his head down slowly, taking Watson deep into his throat, and then dared again to steal his hand between Watson’s legs, pressing further back, rubbing in slow circles, wanting to do more, but knowing he should not, not without something to ease the way. He made a decision, suddenly pulling away and climbing down from the bed. “Oh, please,” Watson groaned, understandably frustrated.

“Just one moment, my dear.”

Watson propped himself up on one elbow to watch as Holmes retrieved a small bottle from his dresser drawer. Watson eyed the vial, but he lay back on the mattress and made room for Holmes to crawl between his legs.

Immediately Holmes took Watson’s cock between his lips again, swirling his tongue around the tip, hoping to compensate in some small measure for the interruption. Watson relaxed into the sensation, sighing with pleasure. Holmes carefully poured some of the oil from the vial onto his hand, not stopping his attentions to Watson’s cock, and this time when his fingers found Watson’s opening there was no startled flinch. Slowly, Holmes pressed one finger inside, and Watson’s heavy breaths stopped.

Holmes paused, waiting for some token of protest. Instead, Watson bent one knee and spread his legs apart. Holmes heard Watson’s deep, stuttering breath as he eased his finger in farther. He tightened his lips around Watson’s cock, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Watson’s hand scrabbling at the bedclothes until it gathered a fistful of the quilt to hold on to.

Watson said Holmes’ name again, his tone not pleading this time but achingly tender, almost reverent. It filled Holmes with insatiable longing: not only desire for Watson’s body, though of course that would always be strong, but more a need to communication the depth of his devotion. In that moment he felt he would do anything, absolutely anything to preserve Watson’s faith and prove himself worthy of it. He was both embarrassed by the sentiment, even though unspoken, and rebelliously proud—he would not allow his previous scornful statements about love and romance to prevent him from fixing this night firmly in his memory.

Moving slowly, Holmes slid his finger in and out, and Watson let out a long, low moan. He was unnaturally still, though, as if afraid to move. As Holmes drew his hand away the next time, he cautiously pressed a second digit in with the first. Watson cried out, then began pushing back against Holmes’ hand and rocking forward into his mouth.

Holmes pushed his fingers as far inside Watson’s body as he was able, sucking forcefully at Watson’s cock until with a second, louder cry Watson flooded Holmes’ mouth, still thrusting helplessly, one hand tangling in Holmes hair. Holmes slid his fingers out almost completely, then quickly drove them in again, forcing another yell from Watson’s throat. As a final shudder took over Watson’s body, Holmes mouth was filled again, and Watson’s ecstatic cries bubbled over into laughter. It was the most joyful sound Holmes had ever heard but startling at such an intimate moment, and he pulled away. Then Watson was tugging at his arms and shoulders, dragging him up the bed to kiss him, still breaking out into occasional bursts of laughter.

“Holmes… Oh, Holmes…” he whispered between gasping kisses. “You’re perfect.”

Then Watson kissed him once again—a long, lingering kiss—before collapsing flat on the mattress and flashing a most brilliant smile. 

Holmes settled next to Watson, pulling the bedclothes up to their chins. He knew that he was not perfect, of course, but it was more than enough that Watson, if only for this moment, believed so.

The End


End file.
